I wonder what Taylor would say if I told her the truth—that Alexis and Harry are living separately from me because I cannot stand to be in the same room as the woman who twisted a knife in my heart, but I have to keep her close to prevent her from being brutally murdered by my enemies.
It would certainly make for a more interesting interview.
By the end of my interview with Taylor Green, we are laughing like old friends. I doubt she would be so cheerful if she knew that I’m guilty of the charges against me, that I murdered my father, and that he was not the first or the last to face his fate down the barrel of my gun.
But that is the whole point of this exercise. The world can never know what kind of monster is lurking just below the surface of my CEO persona, though the temptation to reveal my pointed teeth and do away with the pretense will always linger.
Once Taylor is gone, I soon realize I have little else to do with my evening. Many of my responsibilities for Bellucci Inc. have been siphoned away in preparation for the trial, and a quick check-in with Silvano reveals that he has learned nothing further about Alexis’ attackers or Clara’s whereabouts.
I guess I should just go home, then.
I grab my coat and head for the door, but with each step, the prospect of rattling around my empty mansion seems less and less tempting. Alexis’ ghost is everywhere—sprawled over the sofa with a laptop, head poking in the refrigerator looking for a late-night snack, bent over my desk, her ripe ass high in the air…
I shake my head and decide to avoid going home for a little while. I have a rare night off. I may as well try to enjoy it.
“Take me to Fiamma,” I say as I get in the car.
David cocks his brow. I have not been to the nightclub in years.
I ignore his questioning stare and sit back against the leather, thinking back to when I first saw Alexis under Fiamma’s flashing lights nearly three years ago. She wore a glittery silver dress that caught my attention in the crowd. Her hair was longer then, nearly down to her waist, and I watched as she flung it back and forth while she and Clara danced wildly to the music.
She wasn’t trying to be sexy, but she invariably was. It was difficult for me to look away, but I had business on my mind that night.
The next time I saw Alexis, she was arguing with the bartender. It was then I knew I had to have her, and when I did, she certainly didn’t disappoint.
Those were simpler times. They seemed chaotic and desperate, but that was nothing compared to now.
David pulls up in front of the club, which looks desolate from the outside. On the weekends, Fiamma is the place to be, and clubgoers line up for hours to get in. On weekdays, however, it’s a more casual affair.
“I’ll be waiting in the parking lot out back,” David says.
I get out and walk past the bouncer, who stands a little straighter when he sees me. What serves as a dance floor on the weekend is scattered with small round tables, each lit intimately with a single flickering candle. A few couples and small groups sit on stools around the tables, and I turn some heads as I enter. I head straight for the bar.
The bartender, a tall brunette with wide green eyes, comes over to me straight away. She smiles nervously, obviously recognizing me.
“What can I get for you?” she asks.
“Whiskey.”
She doesn’t ask what kind, just goes straight for the good stuff and slides a glass over to me. I drain the glass and tap the rim. She pours me another.
There is a group of three girls propped up at a nearby table, each of them dressed to the nines. Their attention snapped to me the second I sat at the bar, and now they giggle conspiratorially with each other, presumably trying to work up the nerve to approach me. It takes until I’ve finished my third whiskey and am nursing a fourth for one of them to pluck up the courage.
The lithe redhead disengages from the group and saunters over to me. She is wearing a skintight emerald-green dress that emphasizes her substantial assets, and every inch of her is primped and polished to an almost inhuman standard, from the perfect line of her ruby red lips to the even fan of her black eyelashes.
She leans on the bar next to me and smiles. “What’s a man like you doing drinking alone?”
Her voice comes out like a purr. It strikes me that this used to be the kind of woman who would catch my eye—expensive-looking, with a playful glint in her eye. The kind of woman who knows the score, and isn’t looking for a man to take her out for brunch or to the farmers market.
I don’t know when this kind of woman lost all appeal to me. I suspect around the time Alexis first sashayed into my life.
“You have no idea what kind of man I am,” I reply disinterestedly, downing the rest of my glass and tapping it on the bar.
The bartender hands me a fresh whiskey. The woman to my right is undeterred.
“Maybe I’d like to,” she says. “Why don’t you tell me?” Her voice lowers. “Better yet, you could show me.”
I shake my head. “You’re wasting your time.”
She stands by for a moment longer, likely wondering if this is all part of some game I like to play or if she is actually being dismissed. I send her a narrow stare which seems to elucidate it for her, and she goes trotting off toward her friends with a haughty sniff.
The bartender comes back over and leans her hip against the bar. “Francesca isn’t used to being turned down like that. You may have done permanent damage.”
I chuckle humorlessly and take another swig of whiskey. It burns deliciously down my throat and sends tendrils of warmth through my veins. I am feeling a lot looser than I was when I first sat down. More relaxed. Perhaps I should drink my problems away more often.
She takes a breath and eyes me up and down, as though gathering her courage.
Oh Christ. I’m not about to get hit on by her too, am I?
“Do you want to talk about it?” the bartender asks, licking her lip.
I cock a brow. “What makes you think I want to talk?”
She shrugs. “You sat at the bar, rather than in a corner booth by yourself, and you keep staring at your phone like you’re waiting for it to ring.”
She’s not wrong. My lip pulls back into an amused smile. “What’s your name?”
“Tracey.”
In a clearer state of mind I would likely tell Tracey to mind her own business, but with the whiskey meandering through my veins, I’m feeling uncharacteristically chatty.
“There’s not much to talk about, Tracey.” I shrug. “I love a woman who did something unforgivable, and now there’s no going back.”
“Unforgivable, huh?” Tracey folds her arms. “Did she sleep with your brother?”
“I don’t have a brother.”
“So your friend then?”
“No.” I frown. “She didn’t sleep with anyone.”
“Okay, got it. So she killed someone you care about.”
My brow knits together, and I blink. “What the fuck are you talking about? Of course not.”
“I’m just running through a list of unforgivable slights,” Tracey says with a grin. “Am I close at least?”
“Not even close.”
“So then what did she do?”
Tracey doesn’t seem to care that she is one false step away from offending the man who owns the place she makes her living. Now that she has gathered her courage, she is on a roll. She reminds me a little of Alexis in that respect, and this makes my tongue a little looser than it should be.